


Out of Order

by HigherMagic



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Mechanics, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mechanic Will Graham, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham is a Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25392358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: Hannibal's car breaks down on a long road in the middle of West Virginia. In his quest to seek help, he ends up at an abandoned gas station, with a little house and a large barn. Living there is a man, Will Graham, who offers to take a look at his car and drive him to the next town so he has a place to stay. Hannibal cannot resist digging into Will's mind and personal life during the drive, learning that Will teaches remotely for the FBI, and in particular, lectures on the Chesapeake Ripper.Of all the people to have met, Hannibal didn't expect Will. Call it coincidence or destiny, the universe rarely makes mistakes.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 72
Kudos: 838
Collections: Hannigram_Reverse_Bang_2020





	Out of Order

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elsweyrfondue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsweyrfondue/gifts).



> Art done by katiosleepin (Tumblr)/ @KatioCat on Twitter. Thank you so much for your lovely art prompt, darling, this was a pleasure to write and you were awesome to work with!

Despite what his peers and patients say about him, Hannibal is not, in fact, a workaholic. He just happens to be very good at managing his time, and therefore can fit more patients and duties within a certain timeframe without worrying about burning out, overextending himself, or otherwise falling short.

Routine is, however, a sure-fire way to end up getting caught. So every first Monday of the month, he rolls a die. Depending on what number comes up, he schedules three days off on top of the corresponding numbers of weekends later, where he takes no patients and makes no plans – unless, of course, he has just returned from such a trip and rolls a 'one'. If he rolls a five or six, as there is no sixth week in a month and rarely a fifth, he simply doesn't take a trip.

Perhaps it's silly, or dangerously eccentric, but what's life without a little whimsy?

There are advantages to going out of town occasionally. One is new hunting grounds, fresh faces, a place he can stretch his legs and enjoy himself. The only consequence is that the environment is less familiar. Hannibal always drives, which is why he takes a week off, so that he can reach almost anywhere in the country and spend a reasonable amount of time relaxing there before heading back.

He rents a car for his longer trips, for while the Bentley is comfortable, it's not the most fuel-efficient vehicle, and certainly not forgettable. He doesn't take his trips with the intention of calling attention to himself.

This trip, however, was a short one, and relatively local. He's in the hills of West Virginia when he hears a rather troubling _thud_ , and a chitter from his engine like something is caught in it. His ability to accelerate is suddenly much weaker, the car whining and the RPM meter flying up and down as the engine overcompensates to maintain its cruise control. Frowning, he pulls off to the side of the road and turns on the flashlight on his phone. He pops the hood and circles to the front of the car, pushing and propping the hood open. He frowns down at the idling engine, and checks the grate. It's undamaged, so nothing flew in and got itself stuck.

He sighs to himself, and closes the hood, getting back into the car. He's still able to move, but much slower, and the hill he's on allows him to gain enough speed to coast up the next one. Idly, his eyes kept mainly on the road, he pulls up his GPS to locate a garage or gas station nearby where he can stop and ask for help.

There's one two miles ahead, not even a building on his map, just a little dot. Hannibal purses his lips and locks his phone, too aware of straining the engine and breaking down for good before he reaches the gas station. If nothing else, he will be able to use a landline to call a tow truck. The tall trees are promising shoddy signal strength at best; it's a miracle his map was able to work at all.

He sees it ahead of him, a tiny building with an open converted barn next to it, a single gas pump with a little sign for the price out front, plastered with a larger one saying, 'OUT OF ORDER'. The pump doesn't even have a hose attached to it anymore. The building doesn't look like a convenience store, but someone's house, the barn holds three cars in various stages of dismemberment. Both the house and the barn look like they've seen better days, and the barren stretch of ground around the site is heavy with tire tracks that hardened in the sun, making the surface rough and bumpy as Hannibal drives across it.

He coasts to a halt in front of the barn, wincing as his car barks a protesting sound and settles with a rumble. He turns off the engine and gets out.

The silence is the first thing he notices. Hannibal is used to this kind of silence for himself – prey animals know when there is a predator nearby and go into hiding. But there are no birds, no rustle of smaller animals in the trees behind the house, no sounds of life. He frowns, hoping it's not abandoned. He's not sure how much farther he'll be able to drive.

"Hello?" he calls.

There's a noise, like a creak of metal. From the barn emerges a man. He's broad-shouldered, his bare arms streaked with grease and motor oil. It's a warm day and he's drenched in sweat, his cheeks and chest red, wearing only a pair of jean shorts cut off just above his knee and fraying at the edges.

The man fixes him with the most stunning pair of blue eyes Hannibal has ever seen, and arches a brow. He pulls a rag from the back of his jeans and wipes his hands on it, walking forward. "Afternoon," he greets. He has an accent – not West Virginia, but drawling. Southern-esque. "Can I help you?"

"I hope so," Hannibal says. "I'm having some car trouble, and unfortunately my phone isn't getting a good signal. Would it be possible to use your landline to call a tow to a garage?"

The man huffs, grinning at him. "No garages here for about sixty miles either direction," he says. He looks at Hannibal's car briefly, brow arching again. "I can take a look at it."

"Are you a mechanic?" Hannibal asks.

"Not officially," the man replies, with a smile that is lopsided and dimples his cheeks. "But those aren't there for the aesthetic." He gestures to the cars in his barn.

Hannibal smiles. "I'd appreciate any help you can give me. Paid, of course. Whatever you need."

The man nods. Once his hands are sufficiently clean, he holds one out to shake, which Hannibal takes. His palm is still slightly sweaty, heavily callused from his work. He stinks of sweat and the inside of a car engine. "I'm Will," he says.

"Doctor Hannibal Lecter."

"That's an interesting name," Will murmurs. He wipes his face with his dirty rag, smearing another streak of dirt across his forehead, and lays it over his shoulder.

"Yes," Hannibal says with a polite smile.

Will grins at him. "So what seems to be the issue?" he asks, walking past Hannibal and towards the car.

"I heard a strange thumping noise, and then lost the ability to accelerate properly. I checked the grate already and couldn't see any evidence that something had come in, nor do I recall driving over a particularly large pothole."

Will nods. "Sounds like it might be a timing belt issue," he says. "Did you notice any smoke?"

"None," Hannibal replies.

"That's good." Will bites his lower lip and sighs through his teeth. "I can take a look at it. It might take a while, especially if I have to order the part." He looks up and meets Hannibal's eyes. "I can drive you to the next town. It's only a few miles, there's a motel you can stay at, since I'm assuming you're not local."

"You assume correctly," Hannibal replies, inwardly sighing at the notion of being stuck in such a backwoods town for an extended period of time. He doesn't want to put Will in the position of having to drive him, but doubts there's such a thing as taxis in such a remote area.

Will nods. "If you give me a minute I can drive you out," he offers.

"I appreciate that, Will, thank you."

Will smiles at him. "You can go wait in the barn if you want. I've got a fan going in there. Hotter than Hell today." With that, he turns and jogs into his house, closing the door behind him. Hannibal hears the soft scuffle and woofs of a dog inside, as well as Will tsking at the animal and telling it to behave.

He goes into the garage, because it is rather warm and Hannibal is dressed in far more layers than Will is. He navigates the cars inside until he finds the fan, positioned and on full blast in front of a Ford truck. The car's hood is open and clearly Will was in the middle of working on it. There are parts and tools scattered all along the cement floor.

Hannibal waits in front of the fan, which isn't so much cooling him down as moving the air to simulate a breeze. Still, out of the direct sunlight, it's much cooler in the building.

He hears Will leave his house, the screen door creaking and slamming shut, and he goes back outside to see Will has dressed in a longer, cleaner pair of jeans, a thin t-shirt sagging at the neck indicating it's been in his possession for a long time, and a pair of brown boots. He grins at Hannibal in greeting, and gestures for him to follow around the other side of the house. Parked in the shade is a grey Volvo, in much better shape than Will's experiments in the barn.

"You need to get anything out of your car before we go?" he asks.

Hannibal shakes his head. He didn't bring any of his hunt back with him, wary of compromising it on the long drive, and his tools are secured in the trunk of the car. He has his wallet, phone, and keys on him, his iPad in the satchel slung across his shoulder. "No need," he says.

Will nods. They get in the car and Will turns it on, immediately blasting them with over-warm, dry air. He winces and revs the engine a few times to encourage the air conditioning to kick in, before he puts the car in drive and peels carefully out, onto the single lane road Hannibal had been travelling.

Hannibal settles in his seat, idly watching the trees as they pass by in a blur. "Have you lived here long?" he asks.

Will hums. "A few years," he replies. "Rent's cheap as dirt out here."

"Do you fix cars for a living?"

Will shakes his head. "I teach remotely," he says.

Hannibal blinks, and turns his head to take in Will's profile. In the chill of the car his flush is fading, his hair curling and fluffing up as it dries from sweat. He still has the stale, salty scent of a body unwashed and hard at work.

"What do you teach?"

Will's lips quirk in a smile. "Criminal behavior psychoanalysis," he says.

"That's an interesting subject," Hannibal murmurs, shifting his weight. Of course, just his luck, that he would be in the company of someone who made a living out of analyzing the inner psyche.

Will hums again. "What about you? What are you a doctor of?"

"I'm a psychiatrist," Hannibal replies. "In Baltimore."

Will laughs. "What a pair we make," he says, grinning.

"Yes," Hannibal replies. "An interesting coincidence."

"The universe is rarely that lazy," Will replies, gesturing vaguely between them. "What brings you so far West?"

Hannibal smiles. "I like to take vacations occasionally. I pick a direction and drive." Not quite true, but it's a suitable enough half-lie. Will nods, like he understands random wanderlust. His eyes, bright even in the shadow of his lowered visor, are sharp on the road. Hannibal can't help wondering if he's forming opinions of Hannibal, the rich out-of-towner with a penchant for showing up in the middle of nowhere. "Why do you teach remotely? I imagine someone in that field would have a wide range of opportunities in a more populated area."

"Teaching pays the bills," Will replies. "I don't like being…watched, like that." He bites his lower lip, casts a sharp and wary look Hannibal's way. "Seeing a bunch of dull faces staring back at me while I talk at them. Half of them are just filling a credit requirement, the other half are well-meaning but ultimately disappointing." He sighs. "I don't want to live in a place with higher rent and a bitch of a commute for one diamond in the rough."

Hannibal smiles. "I see."

"I hope you're not putting that psychiatrist brain to use on me." Will's words are playful, but his voice holds a warning.

"Of course not," Hannibal replies, and smiles at Will. "Not actively, anyway. I can't shut it off, and I doubt you can either, if you're choosing to live so reclusively."

Will's eyes narrow, but he's smiling. "I can compartmentalize. Build forts."

"Associations come quickly."

"So do forts."

Hannibal laughs. "Touché," he murmurs.

Less than a moment later, there is an exit ahead which Will takes, revealing a rest stop, a McDonald's, a small collection of houses, and a rundown Motel 6. He pulls up into the parking lot and puts the car in park. "Here," Hannibal says, and pulls out his business card, handing it to Will. "So you can call me with updates. I truly appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to see to my vehicle."

"What good is having a society if we don't help each other out every now and again?" Will counters, taking the card. Hannibal smiles, and gets out of the car. "I'll call you as soon as I have an update." He looks at the card, and pushes it into his pocket. "Have a good evening, Doctor Lecter."

"And you, Will. Thank you again," Hannibal says. He steps back so Will can drive away, and then turns and enters the motel. There is a young man behind the desk, looking bored beyond belief. He straightens as Hannibal approaches. "Hello. I'd like a room, please."

"Single?" the man guesses, and Hannibal nods. "Smoking or non?"

"Non, please," Hannibal says, internally wrinkling his nose at the idea of being in a room filled with the scent of stale smoke.

"How many nights are you staying?" the man asks, typing away at his computer.

"I think two will suit," Hannibal replies. If Will needs to an order a part, it won't be resolved overnight, and he's certain in a town this small he can extend his stay with little issue. The man nods, and registers Hannibal's I.D. and credit card, scanning it to charge at the end of his stay. He hands it all back to Hannibal along with a room key card.

"You'll be in room two-oh-seven," the man tells him, and points back out the door. "There are stairs to the right to the second level, you'll be on the left." Hannibal nods and thanks him, taking his things and headed back into the sweltering heat. He hurries to his room and enters it. It's a bland affair, beige and brown, a bed pressed to the wall and a small sink area. The toilet and shower are in a separate small room beside the sink. Hannibal sheds his suit jacket and goes to the boxy air conditioning unit under the window. He closes the curtains and turns the unit to cooling, as high as it will go in an effort to push the warm, stale air out of the room.

He sighs to himself. There is a television in the room, with a small pamphlet beside it, telling him he has fifteen channels to choose from, most of them being the news. The WiFi password is at the bottom, and he connects his phone and iPad to it. It seems slow, but serviceable.

He has patients scheduled for the day after next, but given recent events, is sure he won't be back in time. His lips purse. He hates rearranging patients, though to their credit, most of them respect him too much or are too nervous around him to argue. Still, moving them around means he'll have to fit more people within a single day and forfeit his extracurriculars for a few additional days.

He sighs to himself, and pulls up his calendar with his patient information. The sooner he calls to rearrange them, the better.

Hannibal's phone rings close to ten at night. It's an unknown number, but has a West Virginia area code. He smiles when he answers it. "Good evening, Will."

"Lucky guess," Will replies with a laugh. Hannibal hears soft noises behind him, the clink of metal shifting against a table, the soft huff of an animal and little clicking claws against the floor. "I wanted to give you an update. It was the timing belt, but it wasn't snapped, just misaligned. I've already fixed it, but I can't come pick you up until the morning."

His voice is guilty, and makes Hannibal smile. Will has already shown him so much benevolence, the idea that he's guilty over not bending over backwards to accommodate Hannibal is endearing. Intriguing. He wonders if Will is this eager to please with everyone he meets. Another symptom of his isolation, or perhaps the cause of it.

"That's perfectly alright," Hannibal replies soothingly. Will sighs in relief. "Take your time, I'm in no hurry."

Will laughs again. "I doubt that," he replies. "No one wants to _stay_ in a place like this."

"You do," Hannibal notes. Will doesn't say anything to that. "Thank you for the timely resolution, Will. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah, sounds good," Will murmurs. There's a clatter, and Will lets out a frustrated breath. "Winston, I swear to God -. Okay, I'll call you tomorrow and arrange a time to come get you. See you later."

"Good night, Will," Hannibal replies, and ends the call. He sighs to himself, sitting upright on his bed, his back to the headboard. He was somewhat shortsighted in this aspect – he didn't bring any bedclothes with him, they're still in his car. As a result, he's only in his underwear, though he thinks it preferable. The air conditioning unit is trying its best, but the blankets and sheets are thick and warm and he doesn't have much faith in its ability to keep him cool all night.

He has his iPad in his lap, and, struck by an idle curiosity, he sets his phone down and pulls up a new search page. He taps the keyboard and types in 'Will, Behavior Analysis professor'. What comes up is a link to the FBI University website. Hannibal's lips purse, his brow creasing in concern. Not just a teacher of the abnormal psyche, but Government sanctioned. Just his luck.

He pulls up a link to Will's faculty profile. His last name is Graham, he's in his late thirties, and judging by his teaching length, has been a professor with the FBI for almost a decade. Hannibal's brows rise, impressed despite himself as he notes the various classes Will has taught throughout the years. Abnormal Psychologies, Compulsions, Psychosexual Deviancy, the list goes on.

There's a link to one of Will's classes, the one that seems to be in progress. It leads to a video clip of a lecture of his. Of course, Will teaches remotely, for it would make sense that his classes are available online. The video clip is only a minute long, since Hannibal is not a student and hasn't paid for the whole thing.

The video opens to an image of Will at a desk, staring into the laptop. It's a few years old, judging by his shorter hair. His screen is split in half, so one side is of Will's face, the other side holds slides from a home invasion case. The first is of the mother, just her head, in a pool of blood from her throat, punctured by a bullet, and mirror shards over her eyes. The second picture is of the father, similarly shot through the jugular for an almost instant death.

"I shoot Mister Marlow twice, severing jugulars and carotids with near-surgical precision. He will die watching me take what is his away from him," Will says, pulling up the image of the father so that it takes up all the screen. His voice is low, even, like he's entered a meditative state. Hannibal sits forward, intrigued despite himself. The image changes, showing the woman again. "I shoot Missus Marlow expertly through the neck. This is not a fatal wound. The bullet misses every artery. She is paralyzed before it leaves her body. Which doesn’t mean she can’t feel pain. It just means she can’t do anything about it."

The two photos are pushed to the side of the screen, revealing Will's face. His lashes are low, a subtle gleam in his eye that seems almost manic. "This is my design," he murmurs, blinking slowly like he's been drugged. Hannibal swallows, fighting the urge to reach out and touch the flush on Will's cheeks.

Will blinks again, and straightens, clearing his throat. "Police reports say that the home security system was used during the Marlowe murder. It was set off, but labelled as a false alarm. There had been a false alarm the week before. He tapped their phones, learned their passcode so that he could take his time, knowing no one was coming to help them."

The photographs move again, clearing from the screen, revealing only Will. There's a fireplace behind him, framing him like a portrait. The way the light hits Will's face makes it look like he's part of the piece behind him. Trying to blend in – a shadow, a watcher in the corner, unseen and unheard.

Will laces his fingers together and meets the camera's eyes. His voice, when it comes, holds the same steadiness of a person going into shock. Deep, contemplative, not at all the same as the smiling, easygoing man Hannibal had met earlier that day. It's fascinating.

"Everyone has thought about killing someone, one way or another, be it your own hand or the hand of God." He says it with such assuredness, and Hannibal finds himself smiling. _Who have you thought about killing, Will? Would you tell me if I asked?_ "Now think about killing Missus Marlow. Why did she deserve this? Tell me your design. Tell me who you are."

The video ends there, and Hannibal sits back, closing the window. He lifts his eyes to find his own reflection staring at him from the screen of the television, all half-formed lines and deep shadows. His lips purse.

What is Will like, he wonders, when the cameras turn off and he thinks no one is watching?

The drive to the town hadn't been all that long. A few miles down a single stretch of road with no twists and turns, less than two hours at a brisk walk. The night is young, and Hannibal has never needed much sleep.

Decided, he stands, and dons his clothes again. He makes sure he has his key card, and makes sure to leave in the opposite direction of the main office so that the clerk doesn't see him. He turns in the direction of Will's house and barn, and starts walking.

Will's house is dimly lit from the trees as Hannibal approaches, slightly out of breath, careful to remain silent and unseen. He approaches Will's house from the back, seeing the wide maw of the closed-in barn, the set of steps leading to the back door, the shadow of Will's car parked beside. The lights in the upper floor are all out, the windows black and staring at him curiously.

Hannibal knows Will has a dog, though he doesn't see any sign of the animal outside. He approaches with caution, wary of the animal spotting him, and goes up to the back of the house, peering into the window beside the back door.

Will is sitting at a desk, that fireplace mantle familiar in the background. He looks like he's recording another lecture. Beneath his desk is his dog, the animal turned away from the window, Will's feet tucked beneath its furry belly. It's a sleek, brindle-coated dog, and wears no collar Hannibal can see.

Will's window is closed, and while he can see Will's lips and hands moving as he records his lecture, he can't hear what Will is saying. His lips purse, and he steps back, eyeing the window on the other side. He circles the steps and tries to look through that, but there's a set of shelves obscuring everything except the corner of Will's desk from this direction.

There's another window, on the side of the house. It's the riskiest place, since it will put him directly in Will's line of sight should he look up and note an odd paleness at the window. The darkness behind Hannibal will work in his favor, the barn near the window soaking up the light and obscuring him completely, but it's still a risky move.

Still, he can always disappear into the trees if Will notices anything amiss. Decided, he carefully treads around the corner of the house, glad that the barren ground holds no crunching leaves or errant branches that would give him away with a snap under his weight. He steps up to the far window, frowning and sighing to himself when the angle means he can no longer see the bottom half of Will's face, and therefore can't read his lips.

This angle gives him a glimpse into Will's space. There is a half wall separating Will's office space and the main living room. Hannibal's brows rise when he sees a bed in the front room. He doesn't sleep upstairs. Lack of space? Or perhaps he feels better near the front door. No one could pin him upstairs should they invade. He would be able to act more quickly.

Defensive. Isolated. There is another desk near Hannibal's window, laden heavily with what looks like equipment and tools to make fishing lures. A fisherman. Patient, focused. Self-sufficient, if he catches his own food. There is a lack of art on the walls, no embellishment. Utilitarian. Purposeful. Not one for impractical indulgences.

His attention is drawn by movement, and he watches Will sigh, the screen on his laptop dims, and he closes the laptop, running a hand through his wild hair. He scratches over the beard on his cheeks and his eyes fall to the bottle of whiskey set just out of sight of the computer's camera.

Hannibal watches him stand and go to it, twisting the top off and taking a drink straight from the bottle. He purses his lips. Alcohol dependence, perhaps. Will might not like how much his lectures affect him. Dulling his insight and his teeth with alcohol, smothering the thrum of needy anticipation in his chest, questions unanswered, secrets still left covered up.

Watching Will drink himself into a stupor won't entertain him, and Hannibal has seen more than enough to warrant conversation come morning. He steps back, nodding to himself, and circles around the back of the house, ready to disappear into the tree line and make his way back to the motel.

He is almost to the trees when he hears Will's back door open. He freezes, cursing himself as Will's dog barrels out and immediately runs to him, barking once. Hannibal turns, ready to defend himself against the dog, but the dog stops short when Will 'tsk's at him.

Hannibal lifts his eyes, and finds Will grinning at him. "Leaving so soon?" he murmurs. He's wearing a collared shirt for the purpose of recording his lecture, but only black shorts to cover his legs, stopping at the knee again.

Hannibal clears his throat, watching as Will unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, revealing a plaint white t-shirt beneath. It's the same one he wore when he drove Hannibal into town. Will crosses his bare feet at the ankle, leaning against the door jamb. His brow arches expectantly.

"I didn't mean to intrude."

Will smiles, and takes another drink from the bottle clasped limply in his hand. It shows his throat, the arch of his pale neck, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. "You don't consider spying on me intruding?" he asks. He doesn't sound upset, more curious.

Hannibal smiles. "Passively," he concedes.

Will grins at him. "Winston, come here," he says. The dog turns immediately and runs inside, and Will closes the door behind him. "Could your car not wait?" he asks, turning back to Hannibal.

Hannibal presses his lips together, and approaches the house so that Will can see him better. "I didn't come here for the car," he tells Will. Will hums, nodding once. He takes another drink. In the darkness, his eyes are more black than blue, pupils wide. It's still warm despite the late hour, and the alcohol is bringing a lovely flush to Will's cheeks. "I watched your lecture on the FBI University website."

"Did you now?" Will purrs. "What did you think?"

"I think you have a very keen eye, and an ability to enter into the cases you study that is unparalleled," Hannibal says. Will's eyes flash, and he tilts his head to one side. "I found it fascinating."

"Did you come here in the middle of the night to pick my brain?" Will challenges, brows arching again. He laughs before Hannibal can answer and takes another drink. "This is why I don't like psychiatrists."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be so interesting, then," Hannibal replies.

Will laughs again, loud and sharp. He takes another step closer and settles gracefully on the top step, his elbows on his knees. He fixes Hannibal with a look, and offers him the bottle. Hannibal can smell it from here, and it smells more like paint thinner than anything he would imbibe, but he's already been incredibly rude to Will and a little drink never hurt anyone.

He takes it and sits beside Will. He tips the bottle up and wets his tongue with it, but doesn't take a proper drink. Will grins when he hands it back and sets the bottle on the step below, between his feet. He scratches at his beard again.

"What case were you lecturing on tonight?" Hannibal murmurs.

Will hums. "The Chesapeake Ripper," he says. Hannibal blinks at him. "You heard of him?"

"He's been called the scourge of Baltimore," Hannibal replies quietly.

Will huffs, his eyes on the trees. "I bet he loves that," he says with a laugh. "Not quite accurate, though. It implies focused malice on Baltimore, specifically." He tilts his head towards Hannibal and taps his nose. The alcohol has lowered his shoulders, softened his voice. He whispers to Hannibal like they're sharing a secret. "I think he just likes the convenience. Lots of places to stretch his legs."

"I suppose," Hannibal says.

"You disagree?"

Hannibal lifts his shoulders in a shrug. "I'm afraid I don't know that much about him," he lies. "Merely that he is…unique in his brutality."

"It's beautiful," Will breathes. Hannibal looks at him, and Will winces, reaching down to take another swig. "I mean -. Never mind." He fixes Hannibal with a look from the corner of his eye, mouth tight. "Don't analyze that."

Hannibal smiles, and he nods.

Will hums to himself, swallows another long pull from the bottle. It's almost half empty now. "Well," he says, clearing his throat. "If you want to take your car and go, you can. Like I said, it's all set. You might want to get it checked out again when you get home, but I made sure she'll get you there." He scratches at his neck, lips pressed together.

Hannibal sighs to himself. He was quite enjoying Will's company, but knows better than to press on this tenuous hospitality. "How much do I owe you?" he asks.

Will waves his hand. "Gratis," he says.

"Will -."

"Consider it a trade," Will interrupts him. He turns and fixes Hannibal with a look that is suddenly so focused. "I don't charge you and don't talk about you, and you leave me alone."

Hannibal frowns.

Will smiles. "I looked in your trunk," he says quietly. "I wanted to check the alignment on your car, just in case, was working on the inside and popped it open. Saw what was inside." He breathes in. "You didn't clean it very well."

Hannibal's lips purse. "I'm sure I did."

Will shakes his head. "No," he murmurs. "Could tell there was a tarp in there at some point. It leaked, there was blood in the wheel well." He shrugs, takes another drink. "I got curious. Snooped. You're not allowed to judge me."

Hannibal smiles despite himself. "And what did you find?"

Will's eyes flash. "Evidence," he says sharply.

"This puts us is quite a complicated situation, then."

"Mm. Maybe," Will says, nodding. "Or it can be simple, like I said. I don't talk. You don't murder me." His lips twitch into a wide grin. "Quid pro quo." The words slur together, but have sharp edges.

He turns towards Hannibal. "Or I can go inside and get my gun. You left your weapons in the car – I'd get to you before you get to them." He winks. "I'm a pretty decent shot."

"You're rather inebriated," Hannibal notes. "Do you think you could beat me, physically, enough to escape into your home to get your gun?"

Will's eyes flash. He shows his teeth in his smile, and takes another long drink, like a challenge. "I have a dog," he replies, shrugging. "He'd be able to do plenty of damage if I couldn't."

"I suppose that's true," Hannibal replies, smiling. "But I think we're getting ahead of ourselves, don't you?"

"Mm." Will's lashes go low, his eyes rake Hannibal up and down. He sets the bottle on the bottom step, sits with his elbows on his knees, splayed out wide enough Hannibal must press his own feet and knees together to give Will room on the narrow steps.

They sit in silence for a while. There is no noise from the wilderness – the animals dare not move or make a sound. Too many predators in their midst. He remembers the same when he first arrived. Perhaps there is more to this reclusive man than meets the eye.

"I would appreciate your silence, Will," he murmurs after another moment. "But I don't think silence and a mutual agreement not to bother each other is what you want."

Will doesn't move, but makes a vaguely curious noise.

"I saw how you reacted to the Marlowe case."

"I thought you said you weren't going to psychoanalyze me," Will snaps.

"I said I would keep it to myself," Hannibal says, smiling. "Not that I wouldn't at all. As I said, it's hard for people like us to turn it off, isn't it?"

Will sucks in a breath through his teeth, and laces his fingers together in the space between his knees. "We're not alike, Doctor Lecter," he says, breathy and quiet and such a stark lie Hannibal can almost see it take form in the air between them like a living thing.

"No," he concedes. "I've had the pleasure of acting on my thoughts."

Will grins. "You know what you like?"

"Do you?"

Will turns to look at him, lashes low again. He wets his lips and drags his thumb across his jaw, watching Hannibal with a curious eye. "It's dangerous for a man to get everything he wants," he murmurs. "Some of us have to have some self-control."

Hannibal smiles. "Implying I lack self-control?"

"What do you want?" Will asks him. "Why did you come watch me?"

"I was curious."

"And is your curiosity satisfied?"

"On the contrary, you grow more interesting to me by the minute," Hannibal murmurs. Will has somehow gravitated closer, without moving at all. His eyes are so dark they are abyssal, the whites of them shining in the light coming from his house. He is half-formed, a creature newly hatched and blinking at the big, wide world.

"I'm not letting you inside," Will tells him with a smile. "That would be foolish."

"Would you like me to leave?"

"A single, short chapter in the book of life," Will murmurs. "Books like this rarely get a sequel."

Hannibal tilts his head to one side. "It doesn't have to end here."

Will smiles. He has gravitated even closer without appearing to move a single inch. Clever boy, slipping into the water with the fish and letting them think it was just the natural movements of the current. He smells of alcohol and his dog and the wildness clinging like smoke to their skins. Hannibal's fingers twitch by his side.

"Will it end at all?" Will asks.

"I suppose that's up to you."

Will grins. "So careful," he rasps, dropping his gaze to Hannibal's lips, then back up. "I should turn you in. I should hurt you. It would be the right thing to do."

"The righteous thing," Hannibal corrects. Will blinks, his smile widens, showing his dimples and the edges of his teeth. "You'd be an avenging angel, but even angels have fallen, Will."

Will laughs, and cups his face. "You talk too much," he says softly, and pulls Hannibal in to him. His hand tightens, slides to the nape of Hannibal's neck so he can't pull away, though he doesn't want to. Their foreheads meet, first, a gentle slide of Hannibal's sweat-damp skin against Will's, and then Will's mouth meets his. He bites, first, forcing Hannibal's lips apart to make way for his tongue. It's rough and off-center and Will's nails bite into Hannibal's neck when he does it. Hannibal closes his eyes, confident that there is nowhere Will could be hiding a weapon. His hand flattens on Will's thigh for balance, slides upwards.

Will shivers against him, growls into the kiss as they part for air and then share another. He's gentler, now, convinced the monster has been cowed enough to feel safe. Foolish boy. Hannibal's other hand grips Will's wild hair and tugs, and he shoves himself to his knees and slides between Will's feet. He knocks the bottle and it goes rolling, falling to the ground in a clunk of glass and explosion of whiskey scent.

Will laughs, his free hand against Hannibal's shoulder to stop him getting too close. But he spreads his thighs and cages Hannibal's hips in with his knees. Too far away for friction, but the promise of it, the heat pouring off Will like sun on asphalt, is maddening. If alcohol dulled Will's teeth, sobriety has sharpened Hannibal's.

"I shouldn't let you get ahead of yourself," he teases.

"Life is a series of pleasures and opportunities to seize, Will," Hannibal answers. Will is so clever, so fascinating. Hannibal wants to tear through his chest and open up his skull to see what creature blinks back at him from the inside. It's impossible, he thinks, that anyone else would have seen right through him so quickly. Suspicious and keen-sighted and utterly brilliant. Will leaves him breathless.

Will laughs, and pushes Hannibal back, onto his haunches. Will's shorts do nothing to hide the growing interest between his legs, but he makes no move to acknowledge it. When Hannibal's eyes fall, he cups Hannibal's chin and forces his head up again.

"Leave, Doctor Lecter," he purrs, and kisses Hannibal again. "If you try to get into my house, if you're still here in ten minutes, I'm going to shoot you."

With that, he rises, ignoring the empty bottle and Hannibal himself. Hannibal watches him, poised to lunge, and wonders if Will would have time to fight him off before he sealed himself away. He straightens, dusting his knees off, combing his fingers through his mussed hair.

Will grins at him over his shoulder. "Take your car and go," he says, and enters his house, locking the door behind him. Hannibal sighs to himself, but doesn't doubt Will won't hesitate to make good on his promise should he linger. Hannibal circles the house and locates his car, still parked by the pump.

He looks back to Will's house and sees him in the front window, next to where he observed Will's bed. Will smiles at him from the window, and then draws the curtains closed.

Fascinating. Hannibal's mind is buzzing as he gets into his car and leaves. Clearly Will has some darker nature in him, that sits up and blinks curiously at the other monsters in the world. He'd called Hannibal's designs 'beautiful', though Hannibal never officially confirmed if Will knows he's the Ripper.

He smiles to himself. There's an easy way to fix that.

There are three bodies in total. One of them, merely the observer, watching the second rip into the chest of the third. He has positioned them just so, that the predator is reaching out to his audience, holding up the dead man's heart in offering. There is a smile on his face, carefully arranged, open and full of adoration. The audience is on his knees, and bears a striking resemblance to a remote teacher in the backwoods of West Virginia.

The news of the murder breaks out the next morning. That afternoon, Hannibal receives a knock on the door to his office. He hums curiously, checking his appointment book. No one is scheduled for two hours at least, and he's not known for accepting walk-ins.

The knock comes again. Hannibal stands and goes to the door, and opens it. On the other side is Will, looking flushed and panting heavily like he sprinted here all the way from West Virginia.

Hannibal blinks at him, and smiles in greeting. Will looks wild, windswept and flushed, his eyes bright with an animal hunger. He steps back and gestures for Will to come in, and Will does. His eyes sweep over the space, expression unreadable and, ultimately, dismissive of the impressively large office and the opulence within.

"I got your message," he hisses.

Hannibal hums. "My message?"

"Don't play coy," Will whispers. "You really want me to watch you? To join you?"

"I think it's a terrible missed opportunity, if you were curious, and I offered no way to assuage that curiosity."

"God, you're pretentious," Will mutters. But he's smiling, just a tease of it, corners of his mouth cutting sharp lines into his cheeks. Hannibal smiles back at him, unable to argue with that. Will prowls closer, close enough Hannibal can smell the coffee he drank that morning, the subtle edge of engine oil perma-crusted into his fingernails, the dander of his dog, the wild scent of the great outdoors in his hair.

"How do you want to sate my curiosity, Hannibal?" Will asks him. "I have FBI connections. I could turn you in and be the man who caught the Ripper."

"A satisfying ending for some, I'm sure," Hannibal replies, as Will's hand flattens on his chest, slides up to rest on his shoulder. Hannibal's hand feels gravitated, pulled to the magnetic core of Will. It settles on Will's hip, tightens as Will shivers, eyes black, teeth sinking into his lower lip. "Would that ending satisfy you, Will?"

Will breathes out heavily. "No," he confesses. His hand is warm, his fingers spreading out wide and curling beneath the lapel of Hannibal's suit jacket. His eyes drop to Hannibal's mouth, then lift again. He smiles. "I don't think it would."

"Then, perhaps, you'd be willing to indulge yourself, and allow me to write a story," Hannibal replies. "A story where we neither kill nor betray each other, but instead explore, from a position of mutual understanding and respect, and see what flourishes from it."

"Flourishes," Will echoes. "A bed of roses or a scourge of creeper vines."

Hannibal merely smiles.

"You're not writing shit," Will says, the words clipped and calm. "This is on my terms, not yours."

Hannibal laughs. How delightful; an angel who thinks he can keep the Devil on a leash. He cups Will's face and brushes his thumb over the flush blooming on his cheek. "As you wish," he murmurs. Will's smile is wide, and bright, and when he pulls Hannibal into another kiss, it holds teeth and promise in equal measure.


End file.
